It was one of those great days in Beverly Hills, the smog creeping under doorframes, up into people's heads. Immediately upon arrival at Bizarre Records, our tape recorder stopped working. Fortunately Herb Cohen, Zappa's manager, lent us one. Zappa came in, frowned, "Hiya" and bestowed an affectionate, if rib cracking, bear hug on this reporter. Perhaps it'd not be such a bad day after all.

We'd met Frank Zappa two years ago, as London correspondent for an American rock paper. He was a delight to talk with, was enchanted with London, and surprisingly gentle with the British Press. You even felt a tiny pang of sympathy for this gifted man, for there is loneliness here. It must be hard being as intelligent as Frank Zappa, but there in London he let down a few defenses. The Mothers gave a highly successful concert at the Albert Hall, displaying both their typical acidic humor and often shattering musical prowess.

Now we were meeting again, this time for the purpose of writing a Frank Zappa column for STROBE. That is, he was talking and STROBE was making it a column, or so we thought. We thought he had agreed to do a column. Frank, whose publicity people had not informed him, expected an interview. (read more)